


you were made to meet your maker

by sarahyyy



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, dumb boys pining, dumb boys with feelings, enjolras is a statue that comes to life, idek okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/pseuds/sarahyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He recognises the naked man. And it’s not even because he’s a widely televised serial killer. Grantaire recognises the naked man because he’s spent the last two months of his life <i>carving said naked man out of marble</i>. </p><p>“Oh my God,” Grantaire says again. “Apollo.”</p><p>“I don’t like that name. I never liked that name,” Not-A-Serial-Killer says. “Can I have another, please?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you were made to meet your maker

**Author's Note:**

> Pygmalion!R was supposed to be less than a thousand words long, I don't know what happened to this, you guys, I really don't.

It takes a crash from the general direction of the living room to wake Grantaire up from deep (possibly alcohol-induced) slumber. He is instantly alert though, because he is in the middle of an epic prank war with Bahorel, and Bahorel has probably lined his bedroom floor with sea urchins or porcupines, like he’d threatened to do so the last time they were at the Musain. 

He sneaks a peek down to the floor, thankfully empty of all sharp and pointy things, and makes his way to the living room. With any luck, Bahorel would still be setting up his prank and Grantaire would learn how to avoid it without accidentally blowing up his kitchen.

He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting to find in his living room as he tiptoes out of his room but in the short distance it takes for him to move from his bed and out of his room, he’s planned for worst case scenarios (see: sea urchin and porcupines on the floor), best case scenarios (see: Jehan with coffee, lots of coffee), and a lot of other stuff that would fall in between both categories, so he figures that he is good to go.

So of course, _of course_ , he comes out to the living room to find a naked man perched on his stool, staring at the half-done painting on his easel, back towards him. 

Grantaire, being a mature adult who makes rational and smart decisions, runs on tiptoes back to his room and calls Eponine. 

“There is a naked man in my apartment,” Grantaire whispers in lieu of a greeting as soon as she picks up. 

“Congratulations,” Eponine tells him, and then hangs up on him.

Grantaire makes a sound of frustration and dials her number again. 

“Let me rephrase,” Grantaire says. “There is a naked man I did not invite into my apartment in my apartment.”

“Again,” Eponine says, “congratulations.”

“Have you been reading the news lately?” Grantaire demands. Because he hasn’t, and it’s suddenly imperative to know what is happening in the city now, because _naked man in his apartment_. “Has there been any serial killers with the MO of killing his victims naked? Am I about to get _murdered_?”

“I am going to hang up on you now,” Eponine tells him, and the exasperation in her voice is evident. “Call Bahorel, see if he sent you a peace offering.”

And _oh_ , that must be it. Eponine is so smart.

“Eponine, you are so smart,” he tells her, and hears her snort before she hangs up.

He calls Bahorel next.

“Did you send me a naked man?” he demands when Bahorel picks up. 

“You’re nuts,” Bahorel says. “It’s 8 a.m. in the morning, why are you calling me about naked men?”

Bahorel sounds genuinely confused, and Grantaire feels nervous all over again. 

“There is a naked man in my apartment,” Grantaire tells him. 

“Congratulations,” Bahorel says, and hangs up.

Grantaire has the worst friends.

—

Grantaire figures that hiding isn’t the best choice. 

He’s living on the eighth floor, so escaping out of the window is out of the question. He briefly considers climbing out of his window, walking along the narrow ledge, and then breaking into Cosette’s apartment again, but the last time he did that, her other stepfather, the one who wasn’t as nice or as _reasonable_ as Mr. Valjean, tried to shoot his foot off, and naked serial killer or not, Grantaire is not going to risk his foot. He likes his foot.

So, of course, the only other option is to look death in the face, and confront the naked and possibly dangerous intruder in his apartment.

Kind of. 

Sort of.

 **To: Eponine**  
why do i not have a sword in my room. what idiot doesn’t have a sword in their room.

 **From: Eponine**  
do i even want to know

 **To: Eponine**  
am going to face naked intruder, need sharp and pointy weapon

 **From: Eponine**  
use your cock.

Grantaire groans, and then immediately regrets it when he hears a shuffle outside his room, and then footsteps, and then a tentative knock on his door.

Jesus Christ, he’s the worst at remembering to knock on doors. Eponine has been trying forever to teach him and Gavroche the importance of knocking and respecting privacy, but they never listen. Of course he is going to die in the hands of a naked serial killer _who knocks_. This is karma. Eponine is going to laugh herself dead when Grantaire tells her.

Or not, because Grantaire is about to get murdered, and dead people don’t get to tell stories to their best friends. 

He looks around his room, trying to search for anything he can use as a weapon, but really, he chucks everything in the studio, doesn’t really even use his bedroom much except to sleep, so it’s bare save for his bed and his closet. He wonders if it would be cowardly to hide in his closet and pretend he’s not there, but then figures that if he’s going to die, he should at least die with honour.

So of course he squeaks, “Come in!”

And then proceeds to dive back onto his bed to hide under the covers.

He hears the bedroom door open, and thinks that maybe he should use his last few moments to tweet about his imminent murder.

“Grantaire?” a voice calls out.

Fuck, that’s his _name_. The naked serial killer probably did his research on him.

“Grantaire, are you alright?” the naked man asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned, but that’s probably because he wants to make sure Grantaire is at his best before he brutally murders him.

“I will be better if you don’t kill me,” Grantaire says, because he’s stupid. “Please,” he adds, remembering that the serial killer has good manners.

“Why would I want to kill you?” the naked serial killer asks.

“You don’t want to kill me?” Grantaire asks, confused. 

“Grantaire, come out from there.”

Grantaire peeks out from under his covers, and lets out a horrified, “Oh my God.”

He recognises the naked man. And it’s not even because he’s a widely televised serial killer. Grantaire recognises the naked man because he’s spent the last two months of his life _carving said naked man out of marble_. 

“Oh my God,” Grantaire says again. “Apollo.”

“I don’t like that name. I never liked that name,” Not-A-Serial-Killer says. “Can I have another, please?”

“Oh my God,” Grantaire repeats.

There is a hint of a smile on the man’s face before he says, “I don’t like that name either.”

“Oh my God.”

“You are really bad at this,” the man says, and then frowns, as if he’s in deep thought. “Enjolras,” he decides. “Call me Enjolras.”

“Oh my God.” 

—

It was a lot easier when Grantaire thought that Enjolras was a serial killer.

—

“Joly thinks it’s a hallucination,” Bossuet tells him.

“It’s not a hallucination. My sculpture came to life! I just gave him my clothes and sent him to the bathroom to change,” Grantaire hisses into the phone, and then realizes how fucking mental he sounds. “I’m not going crazy, I swear!”

“Right,” Bossuet says dryly.

“There is a very attractive marble-statue-turned-man in my apartment,” Grantaire says seriously. “Send help.”

“Drink plenty of fluids,” Bossuet says, and it sounds like he’s giving a very watered down version of whatever Joly is telling him from the other end, “and go back to bed. The hangover will sort itself out and you will stop seeing things.” And then he hangs up. 

Christ, Grantaire has the worst friends. He needs to cut ties with all of them because _the statue he was carving came to life_ , why is no one taking him seriously?

—

“So,” Grantaire says, drawing the word out, because the sight of Enjolras in his clothes is doing terrible things to his brain. He starts on the coffee machine, mostly just to occupy his hands and to stop them from shaking.

“So?” Enjolras prompts.

“I don’t know how to react to this,” Grantaire tells him. “I don’t know how to react to you coming to life. I’m not even entirely sure that I’m not dreaming.”

Enjolras frowns at him. “Do you even remember how it happened?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I can’t even remember _that_ it happened.”

Enjolras’ frown grows more pronounced, and wow, Grantaire has really outdone himself this time. The angle of Enjolras’ face is sharp and handsome, despite the feminine curve of his lips. His lashes are long and his eyes are of perfect symmetry, even though Grantaire knows he must have been half-drunk when he worked on them.

“This is so surreal,” he tells Enjolras, and passes him a mug of coffee. “Statues don’t come to life.”

“I remember you telling me that,” Enjolras says softly. 

Grantaire blinks at him stupidly. He doesn’t remember ever doing at.

“Last night,” Enjolras says with a sigh. “You came back from wherever it was you went to, drunk and ranting. You called me a good listener, then mourned over the fact that statues didn’t come to life.”

“You were sentient even as a statue?” Grantaire asks, his horror growing, because he practically lives in the room he’s converted into his studio and he remembers several occasions where he’d, uh, relieved himself of tension there.

Enjolras shrugs. “Not everything. Some things are clearer than the others,” he tells Grantaire. “I remember how it happened, if you’d like to know?”

Grantaire nods. 

“You were drunk last night,” Enjolras says again, and there’s a small disapproving smile on his face that makes Grantaire feel about two feet tall. “You’re drunk most nights, but last night was different,” Enjolras continues, face softening. “You said you didn’t want to be alone. You sounded sad. I think you might’ve been crying.”

Christ, Grantaire is _pathetic_ when he gets drunk. He is never getting drunk again.

This story cannot get worse.

“And then you kissed me,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire chokes on his coffee, because Christ, of course it can get worse. “You stumbled out of the room and next thing I knew, I could move.”

“I brought a statue to life by being a total creep,” Grantaire says. And then, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Enjolras says, looking him straight in the eye.

“Right,” Grantaire says, the jittery feeling coming back to him all at once again because Enjolras’ gaze is unnerving. “Because it did bring you to life, didn’t it? I’m sorry it’s not a better story though. You deserve a better story,” he says. And why, _why_ is it that he cannot shut up when he’s nervous? “It must feel great to be able to move, doesn’t it? It must’ve been very tiring to stand for two whole months. I’m sorry I didn’t decide to sculpt you sitting down.”

Enjolras smiles, and then takes a sip of his coffee. “This is horrible,” he says, making a face and pushing the cup back to Grantaire. 

“It’s the drink of champions,” Grantaire tells him seriously before he dumps two cubes of sugar and a dash of milk into Enjolras’ coffee.

Enjolras takes a tentative sip.

“Better?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras beams at him, bright and easy, and fuck, Grantaire is suddenly hit with the intense urge to kiss him. 

(Again, apparently.) 

Fuck, he is so fucked.

—

Grantaire ends up calling Combeferre, because that’s what people do when they have questions they need answers to or problems that need solutions for. And once again illustrating why Combeferre is the best person in the world, he doesn’t even ask if Grantaire is sure he isn’t high or if he’s drunk, just listens and tells him that he’s coming over in 15 minutes.

“I’ve got a friend coming over,” Grantaire tells Enjolras when he comes out of his room to see Enjolras perched on the couch, frowning at his copy of _The Social Contract_. “He’s hopefully going to help us make sense of this.”

Enjolras frowns. “Did we not already make sense of this?” he asks. “You were lonely, I’m here to make sure you don’t feel that way anymore. Which part of that doesn’t make sense?”

Grantaire rubs his hand over his face. “The part where you are a _statue that came to life_.” He sighs when Enjolras’ frown deepens. “Look. Statues don’t come to life, we’ve both established that we understand that, but here you are and I- I just need someone to come over to tell me that I’m not finally going crazy, is that alright?”

Enjolras nods and turns his attention back to the book, posture stiff, and Grantaire settles for fidgeting around, unsure of what he’s supposed to do. He’s just only started to get engrossed in his game of Candy Crush when Enjolras lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he offers, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “I understand this is probably freaking you out.”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire says, and sets his phone down on the table. Having something breakable in his hands is dangerous because there’s a slight flush on Enjolras’ face that highlights his cheekbones, and Grantaire wants to reach out and touch him so much he doesn’t know what to do. “This must be weird for you too.”

Enjolras shakes his head minutely. “I don’t really know any other state of being. I can’t really compare.”

Grantaire feels like an asshole. The worst kind of asshole. 

“For what it’s worth,” he tells Enjolras, “I’m glad you came to life, and not that horrible painting I have of that phoenix.”

“It’s a good painting,” Enjolras argues, but his lips are curled up slightly at the edges, and he looks less upset with himself, so Grantaire considers it a victory.

They spend the next ten or so minutes in companionable silence (and Grantaire should really be taken aback by how easy it is to be around Enjolras, but he doesn’t, not really) until they hear a knock on the front door. When Grantaire opens the door, Courfeyrac pushes past Combeferre and him in his haste to rush into Grantaire’s apartment. 

When he sees Enjolras, he lets out a (manly) shriek. 

Combeferre sighs. “I’m sorry,” he tells Grantaire. “He caught me on my way out of the apartment.”

Grantaire shakes his head and laughs when Courfeyrac doesn’t take his eyes off Enjolras and begins to circle him. 

“Holy shit,” Courfeyrac breathes out. “He’s real. Can I touch him, Grantaire? Is it okay if I do? Because I really need to touch him to see if he’s real.” 

“He’s right there,” Combeferre says. “Ask him. He probably also has a name. Ask him that too.”

Grantaire catches the sharp breath Enjolras takes, and of course, of course, he’s been making Enjolras uncomfortable with the constant reminders that he is - _was_ \- a statue. He’s the dumbest person in the world, someone should lock him up and stop him from interacting with people.

“Enjolras,” he says after Courfeyrac apologises profusely for thinking that he isn’t capable of consent regarding his own body. He sneaks a glance at Grantaire, and then adds, “Grantaire named me Apollo, but I didn’t like it.”

Courfeyrac nods. “You were the last piece of his showcase. He also sculpted a lovely Hermes, he’s my second favourite, but I always liked you best. R worked the hardest on you. You’re gorgeous.”

Enjolras flushes and nope, Grantaire did not wake up this morning equipped to deal with an attractive, ravish-able man blushing in his living room. 

“I think the credit goes to Grantaire,” he says. “I wouldn’t be beautiful if he hadn’t made me so.”

“He modelled most features of all his other statues on people, I was, of course, the inspiration behind Hermes,” Courfeyrac tells him in a stage whisper, “but you’re entirely his own creation. He said he had a vision for his Apollo.”

Grantaire feels inexplicably nervous, and Combeferre must be able to tell, because he does that thing he does with Courfeyrac where they have a silent conversation just using their eyes, and Courfeyrac says brightly to Enjolras, “Have you been outside yet? You need to go outside, the weather today is just lovely. We should take a walk in the park, would you like that?”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, as if to ask for permission.

“You don’t have to ask for my permission to do anything,” Grantaire tells him seriously, and sees Combeferre smile approvingly at him. “You are your own person.”

Enjolras smiles gratefully and turns back to Courfeyrac. “I’d love to go out.”

Courfeyrac grins. “We could go shopping,” he says. “Get you some new clothes. You can’t keep wearing R’s clothes, no matter how much he would like you to. He’s a very possessive guy.” Grantaire is going to kill Courfeyrac. “You would look good in red.”

Courfeyrac keeps the stream of chatter up as they leave the apartment. 

Grantaire flops back on the couch and groans, “Help me, Combeferre.”

Combeferre sits down next to him. “He seems like a nice enough guy,” he offers. 

“He is,” Grantaire says. “That isn’t the problem.”

“Then what is the problem?” Combeferre asks.

“What is the problem?” Grantaire echoes. “He is a statue that came to life! Why does nobody have a problem with that?”

Combeferre shrugs. “He looks human enough to me now,” he says. “That should be all that matters.”

“But-” Grantaire swallows, tries to organise his jumble of thoughts into something more coherent. “But what if he doesn’t _stay_ human?”

“How did it happen?” Combeferre asks.

“I was drunk,” Grantaire tells him, and he refuses to feel bad about the way Combeferre’s eyes soften with sympathy because he knows that Grantaire never drinks for fun, only drinks with intent to numb himself. “But according to Enjolras, I kissed him, and he came to life.”

Combeferre cannot stop the grin from unfurling from his face. “Courfeyrac is going to die when he hears this,” he tells Grantaire.

“This is why Courfeyrac is never going to find out,” Grantaire mutters.

Combeferre snorts. “He would have had Enjolras’ entire life story out in a matter of minutes of conversation, you know that.”

“That isn’t hard,” Grantaire snaps, “given that Enjolras’ entire life story consists of things happening between _last night and this morning_.”

Combeferre arches an eyebrow at Grantaire’s tone and Grantaire deflates. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I needed a drink to fizzle the stress out, but Enjolras was here, and he’s made his disapproval of me drinking quite clearly earlier on.”

Combeferre’s other eyebrow rises to join the first. “Since when do you act on other people’s disapproval?” 

He doesn’t mean it as a swipe, just asks because he is genuinely curious. 

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says. “He makes me want to be- A better version of myself,” he ends up saying. “Does that make sense?”

Combeferre’s lips twitch up into a small smile. “Then I think he’ll be very good for you.”

—

Grantaire’s friends take to Enjolras really well.

Courfeyrac declares that he has a special bond with Enjolras, seeing as how he’s technically Enjolras’ first friend. When ever Grantaire tries to argue that point, Courfeyrac just waves him off dismissively and tells him that he doesn’t count because he doesn’t know Enjolras’ favourite colour (he does) or Enjolras’ favourite food (he does) or the temperature Enjolras best prefers his tea (trick question, Enjolras doesn’t like tea). 

“But did you know it within 15 minutes of knowing him?” Courfeyrac demands, and when Grantaire has no reply to that, bumps his shoulder against Enjolras’. “See? We’re best friends.” 

Cosette and Marius invites them over for dinner when she learns that he is “secretly keeping a man at home”, and Grantaire tries to play Enjolras off as a friend from out of town, but gives up on the charade mid-dinner and tells them the truth, because Cosette keeps giving him that look that says that she knows he is lying to her and she will give him hell for it later. Marius falls off his chair, and Enjolras looks mildly uncomfortable for a moment until Cosette rolls her eyes and tells him that he needs to come over for dinner every other night because Grantaire can’t keep a cactus alive in his apartment, much less a human being.

Eponine starts a system with Enjolras, in which the both of them take turns to chart his food-to-alcohol ratio and then meet up to discuss how to help him cut down his alcohol intake. When Grantaire first figures out that they’re doing this, he rolls his eyes because it’s stupid. Eponine’s done this before, and she’s probably expecting it to fail as it always does, but every time he reaches out to refill his glass of whiskey, Enjolras has a small frown on his face, and Grantaire ends up filling his glass with water instead. He learns to fall asleep to the image of Enjolras’ lips curved up in a satisfied smirk, and wake up to a post-it note on his door telling him _well done :)_.

Bahorel picks Enjolras’ brain for ideas on pranks to use on Grantaire. Grantaire wakes up groggily one morning to become the victim of a brutal pillow fight where he is severely outnumbered and out-resourced because Bahorel and Enjolras are hiding behind a barricade they built out of his furniture, and have stolen all his pillows to use as ammunition against him. Grantaire forgets to be angry when Enjolras hits him straight in the face with a pillow, because Enjolras throws his head back and laughs so prettily that he has to put all his focus into not wanting to climb over the barricade and kiss him stupid.

Feuilly offers to find Enjolras a job, a suggestion to which Enjolras agrees to readily, because he doesn’t believe in living off other people’s dime and of course, _of course_ Grantaire’s creation would turn out to be the self-righteous good person he never was. The day Enjolras gets a job at the coffee shop down the road, he comes home excited and talks to Feuilly for an hour on the phone, even though he only called to thank the man for helping him with the job search. When he gets off the phone with Feuilly, he joins Grantaire on the couch where they celebrate over Chinese takeaway and a movie. Enjolras dozes lightly on his shoulder mid-movie, and Grantaire rouses him, clamps down on his want when Enjolras’ eyes flutter open blearily, and nudges him into his room. 

When Joly and Bossuet first meet Enjolras, they tell him about their girlfriend, Musichetta, and tell Enjolras that he’ll get along swimmingly with her, and promise to bring her over for dinner. They do, about a week after that, and Enjolras’ mug slips from his grasp when he sees her. Grantaire is at his side immediately, because fuck, he should have expected this. He modelled his statue of Aphrodite after Musichetta, and the statue had sat in his studio long after it had been done and Grantaire had started on Apollo because he’d forgotten to arrange for it to be transported to the gallery first, and Enjolras probably recognises her from there. Enjolras recovers from his shock pretty quickly and does, in fact, get along swimmingly well with Musichetta, who sings folk music to him as they clean up after dinner, but after they leave and Enjolras sidles up to Grantaire and tentatively asks for a hug, something he picked up from Marius, no doubt, and Grantaire doesn’t refuse.

Grantaire comes home one night to Jehan and Enjolras cuddling on the couch, both sleepy-eyed and comfortably wrapped with a blanket. When Jehan spots him, he just reaches an arm out, beckoning him to come closer, and Grantaire does, settling down against Jehan and revelling in his familiar warmth. He startles when Enjolras reaches across Jehan to reach for his hand, but doesn’t do anything to discourage it, because when Enjolras threads their fingers together, he smiles at Grantaire, and the contentment in his eyes makes Grantaire’s heart swell with an answering _something_. 

Combeferre and Enjolras meet up every Thursday night for dinner, and Enjolras always comes back from their meeting smiling. The first time Grantaire asks Enjolras about what they talk about during dinner, they get into a shouting match about bodily autonomy, and Grantaire, still a bit thrown off by the jealousy he feels at how close Enjolras and Combeferre seem to be, snaps, “What do you know? You’re a statue that came to life.” 

It’s the worst possible thing to say. The words are barely out of his mouth when he feels the guilt set in. Enjolras’ face falls and he nods and tells him that he is right before he goes back into his room and ignores the pleading _I didn’t mean it that way_ that Grantaire says. 

Or at least he tries to for about five minutes, before he emerges from the room and says, “No, you’re not right about this.” And then proceeds to tell him exactly why, with citations to articles and authors, and ends his speech with, “Just because I’m new to all of these doesn’t mean that I can’t understand that it’s wrong or want to change it.”

This is probably the moment where Grantaire falls in love with Enjolras.

—

Again, things were a lot easier when Grantaire thought Enjolras was a serial killer.

—

There are three almost-kisses.

The first one happens when they are arguing about freedom of information and duty of disclosure. Grantaire likes it when they fight, he likes it a lot, and not only because of that gleam that Enjolras gets in his eyes whenever they fight, but because Enjolras is smart and an idealist, and listening to him talk about how things can be better, how things _will_ be better, almost makes Grantaire want to believe.

“Are you even listening?” Enjolras snaps at him.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, and says, “I always listen to you.”

He doesn’t really know how he meant to say it, but it’s definitely not the quiet, reverent way it ends up coming out. 

Enjolras’ eyes soften almost immediately and then darken as they trail the path of Grantaire’s tongue as it darts out to wet his lips, and Grantaire holds his breath, tries to steel himself for the moment where he has to use all his willpower to push Enjolras away.

Him being so close to Enjolras is dangerous. The last time he kissed Enjolras, he brought him to life; who is to say that the next kiss won’t turn him back into chiselled marble? Nobody can tell him that, because nobody fucking knows. 

So he doesn’t. Doesn’t lean in and close the gap between them and press his lips softly to Enjolras’, doesn’t even though he wants it more than anything in the world.

The second time happens when Grantaire is losing his mind trying to come up with another sculpture for his exhibit, and Enjolras tells him that he should sculpt another Apollo, since that was always the plan. 

“No,” Grantaire says immediately. “I don’t think I could do it again. Look how the last one turned out.”

He doesn’t notice the hurt on Enjolras’ face until he looks up when Enjolras doesn’t reply. 

“Christ,” Grantaire says. “I didn’t mean it that way.” The words are starting to grow stupidly familiar to him because of how often he has to say it to Enjolras. “I just meant-”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras says, looking down at his hands. “You don’t have to explain.”

“No, I do,” Grantaire insists, and on an impulse, reaches to take one of Enjolras’ hand in his. “I can’t sculpt another Apollo because I already perfected one, and you don’t repeat things that are already perfect because then you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.”

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes out, eyes wide and lips parted, and looking like every dream Grantaire’s had of him since the day he woke up to find Enjolras in his living room, and he could, he could just tug him close and kiss him, but he can’t do it, won’t risk losing Enjolras, so he stays quiet, stays still in his place, and lets the moment pass.

The third time happens at Cosette’s birthday party. Eponine and Enjolras give him a temporary amnesty to drink more than the allotted number of glasses, _within reason_ , and Grantaire dutifully gets pleasantly buzzed instead of outright drunk. Courfeyrac seems to have cajoled Enjolras into drinking in the spirit of celebration too. He is in the middle of doing shots with Bahorel and Bossuet when he spots Grantaire looking at him.

“Grantaire!” he says happily, and then ditches the drinking game they are in the middle of to join him at the other side of the room. “I’ve missed you,” he says, when he’s come close enough to snake his arms around Grantaire’s neck, still grinning. 

Grantaire swallows when Enjolras leans in to nuzzle into his neck. “You smell nice,” Enjolras murmurs. “You always smell nice.” 

It’s a lie. Enjolras doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Grantaire smells like paint and cigarettes and alcohol all day, he doesn’t smell _nice_. 

“I want to kiss you,” Enjolras says, and that’s the moment where Grantaire stiffens and stops breathing. “But not like this,” he continues, sounding a little sad and moving away from Grantaire. “Not when you don’t want me.”

Grantaire watches Enjolras’ back as he walks away from him, and ends up snatching a bottle of tequila on his way out of Cosette’s apartment. He locks himself in his room, whispering to himself _you cannot want him_ , hoping that if he says it enough times, his heart will understand the pain he's putting it through is for a good reason.

—

It takes no effort for him to memorise Enjolras’ work schedule at the coffee shop, and to work out the best way to avoid him without it looking like Grantaire is actively trying to avoid him. He sleeps in late, stays out late, goes to the art gallery more often than he has to under the guise of checking in, drops by Cosette’s dance studio to twirl around in an empty studio often enough that she must know that he’s up to something stupid.

He barely sees Enjolras for a week, and it doesn’t get any easier. The heavy weight in his chest doesn’t subside, he doesn’t actually stop thinking about Enjolras at all, but that will all go away with time, he’s sure. 

“You’re an idiot,” Cosette tells him, on the third consecutive day he comes by her dance studio. 

He doesn’t even try to deny it, because _fuck_ , so many people in the world and he has to go and fall in love with the one person he cannot have? That’s really smart of him.

“I’m trying not to be one,” Grantaire calls out, making his way to one of the empty rooms, and hoping that Cosette doesn’t follow him in.

“Doesn’t look like it’s working!” she yells back at him.

Seriously. So much easier when he thought Enjolras was a serial killer.

—

It all comes to an end one quiet Friday night when Enjolras catches him by the sleeve just as Grantaire makes a move to go hide out in his studio again. 

“I think we need to talk,” Enjolras says, frowning slightly, and leads Grantaire by the sleeve of his shirt to the couch. “You don’t like me anymore, and I would like to know why.”

Grantaire chokes on a breath. “Sorry, what?”

Enjolras stares at him. “You used to enjoy my company, but you barely want to be near me anymore,” Enjolras says. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire is quick to answer. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then why don’t you like me anymore?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire blinks. “I do like you.”

Enjolras arches an eyebrow. Huh, Combeferre has taught him well.

“I like you,” Grantaire says again. “A lot. Probably to an inappropriate amount.” He gives Enjolras his best smile, and then two thumbs up, just to see if they can speed the conversation up and he can go back to never speaking to Enjolras again because it seems that every time he does, he just makes himself look more like an idiot than he thought was possible. 

Enjolras’ frown doesn’t ease up. “Why would it be inappropriate?”

“Because-” Grantaire doesn’t really have the best answer for this. “Just because.”

“That’s not an answer,” Enjolras says. “Tell me. I want to know.”

“Because this isn’t right!” Grantaire blurts out. It isn’t what he wants to say. He wants to say that he thinks that Enjolras is the best thing to happen to him, that Enjolras’ mere presence in his apartment has made him happier than he has felt in a long time, that he wants to kiss him so badly but he’s afraid, he’s so afraid that if he does, if he so much as touches Enjolras, Enjolras would turn back, but he wants to, _he wants to so much_. But he doesn’t say all of that, because he is dumb. “Because I made you, and fuck, three months ago you were a block of marble, five weeks ago you were a statue-”

“And now I am a person,” Enjolras snaps, and great, Grantaire has managed to make Enjolras angry. “I am a person,” Enjolras says again, calmer, quieter, “and I know what I want.”

Grantaire is afraid to ask what it is exactly that Enjolras wants.

“I want you,” Enjolras says fiercely, and Grantaire feels all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. “I want you to look at me the way you always do when you think I am not looking.”

Grantaire’s mouth is dryer than the Sahara. “Apollo-”

Enjolras steps in closer, close enough for Grantaire to reach out and touch him; he doesn’t, he _can’t_.

“I want you to kiss me,” Enjolras whispers. “Will you?”

Grantaire’s brain short-circuits and it is all he can do to stare at Enjolras and gape.

When a minute goes by and Grantaire still hasn’t said anything, Enjolras’ face falls visibly, and he takes a step backwards, away from Grantaire, and Grantaire is completely unprepared or the ache in his heart at the thought of losing Enjolras, which is ridiculous, because two weeks ago, he didn’t even _have_ Enjolras.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras is saying. “It’s just- Courfeyrac said that my advances wouldn’t be unwelcome, and that I should just tackle you to the ground and kiss you, and maybe I should’ve done that, maybe that would make you feel less uncomfortable, but Combeferre and I were discussing consent, and he said that it was important that I tell you what I want, tell you that I want you, that I love you, and let you make your move-”

Grantaire kisses him, because his brain seizes up at I love you, and freezes the moment their lips touch, his heart skipping a beat. He shuts his eyes tight, keeps it closed, and focuses on the warmth of Enjolras’ lips. Then Enjolras makes a small noise in the back of his throat, his arms snaking around Grantaire’s neck and Grantaire cannot help but to wrap his arms around Enjolras’ waist to pull him closer, deepening the kiss, because _this is happening_.

When Grantaire eventually pulls away, Enjolras’ pupils are blown wide, and his cheeks are flushed, and his lips are red and swollen, and _he is still human_ , and God, Grantaire has never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.

He brings his palm to rest on Enjolras’ chest, right above his heart, revelling in the erratic beat of Enjolras’ heart, and Christ, he has never been so grateful for anything in his life. 

“Was that what you wanted?” Grantaire asks, voice hoarse.

Enjolras smiles and Grantaire makes a mental note to send Courfeyrac all the fruit baskets in the world.

“I want other things too,” he says, almost coy.

Grantaire feels his pulse race and it’s too much trouble to stop himself from grinning so he doesn’t. “Oh?”

Enjolras nods and slips his hand up Grantaire’s shirt, his touch just this side of teasing. Grantaire’s breath comes sharply, because he wants to go down on his knees and thank the person who taught him this just as much as he wants to rip their head off their shoulder.

Enjolras looks very pleased with himself. “I may have been pining to Jehan,” he explains. “He gave me tips.”

“Verbal tips?” Grantaire asks, voice strangled, because he loves Jehan, and doesn’t want to have to kill him.

Enjolras’ grin grows. “He said you would ask,” he says, and then his fingers still. “He knows a lot about you,” he continues quietly, and Grantaire hates the way he looks less happy now. “I want that too. I want that most of all.”

Jesus fucking Christ, Grantaire is not getting out of this with his sanity intact.

“You can have that,” Grantaire promises. “You can have all that, and more. You can have everything you want.”

“Everything?” Enjolras asks, lips tipping up.

“Everything,” Grantaire gasps out, because Enjolras’ fingers are sliding across his nipple, and okay, he’s going to get Jehan fruit baskets too, so many fruit baskets.

Enjolras leans in and whispers “Even if I wanted to suck you off?” in Grantaire’s ear and Grantaire is proud of how his heart doesn’t just stutter to a stop.

“Eponine,” Enjolras tells him when Grantaire manages to gurgle out something that he hopes resembles a heartfelt yes. “She said you would like that. Do you?”

Fuck, he has the best friends in the world, and he’s going to get them all the fruit baskets in the world, just watch him.

Enjolras looks like he’s still waiting for an answer, so Grantaire says, “Yes, Christ, I do. I would like everything you want to do to me.”

Enjolras beams and his whole face lights up, and Grantaire knows a losing battle when he sees one, so he doesn’t even fight his urge to reach out to pull Enjolras in for another kiss.

—

Later, when they are both sated and Enjolras’ naked body is curled around his, Enjolras nuzzles his neck, and says, “I want to do all the other things with you, too.”

Grantaire grins. “I’m pretty sure you need to give me some time to recover.”

Enjolras laughs. “Not that,” he says. “Well, yes, that too, but other things also. I want to hold your hand and go on dates with you and buy flowers for you.”

Grantaire’s grin grows. “Marius?” he asks, because the only other thing to do would be to flip Enjolras over and then ravish him all over again, because _Jesus fucking Christ_.

“Bahorel,” Enjolras corrects sleepily.

Okay, it’s official - Grantaire has the best friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from Mumford & Sons "Awake My Soul". 
> 
> I'm [here](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com) on tumblr, come say hi!


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